Christmas Yet to Come
by Channel D
Summary: As Christmas 2010 approaches, Tim is forced to face choices that could change his life...and those of people around him. First, he has to figure it all out. Written for the 2010 NFA Secret Santa fic exchange. Ten chapters plus a prologue; now complete.
1. Prologue

**Christmas Yet to Come**

**by channeld**

a drama with some fantasy elements  
featuring Tim and the team  
pairings: none  
K plus rating

written for the 2010 NFA Secret Santa fic exchange

Prompt Given: McGee goes through a major life-altering change to where the team is pulled apart and they have to find a way back together even if a member or several are absent (character death maybe?) But I'd like an eventual happy ending (at least something good has to happen at the end, everything doesn't have to be perfect)

Author's note: Because there is magic at Christmastime, in the spirit of all things good, there is a little magic in this humble tale, too. I hope that you, dear reader, take it in the manner in which it is offered, and let the magic enlighten you…as it does Tim.

Thanks to Charles Dickens for inspiration, as well as a few other sources which you may pick out.

# # #

disclaimer: I still own nothing of NCIS.

* * *

**Prologue **

**Late November2010**

**Marine Corps Base Quantico, Virginia**

"_Get back! Get back! She's gonna blow!"_

"Ye gods; I've never seen anything like this!"

"Feel that heat? It's incredible!"

"Everyone got out, right? Right?"

"Think so. We got three small kids here, and their mother, and what looks like an uncle or grandfather…The adults are out, but they're breathing…"

"Still an oxygen mask on that little boy. He was trying to get his older sister out; she froze, according to the younger sister."

"Brave kid."

"He saved her life."

Tim listened to the rescue workers' chatter with half of his brain. Ziva, Tony and Gibbs had long since pulled back; letting the firefighters do their stuff, now that the fire trucks had arrived. The newly-built base housing unit at Quantico, with only one of the townhouses occupied, was a loss. How had it happened? Was it related to the meth lab found in the unfinished unit two doors down? Most likely. Was everyone out? Yes. That was good. Tim itched to be doing something useful.

"Why is a grandfather here?" Ziva wondered. "He cannot be living in base housing. Unless, by some stretch, he was declared a dependent."

"Probably was visiting," said Tony.

The fire was an angry, nearly out-of-control orange that would have been pretty as a bonfire, but was horrible as something that destroyed a family's possessions. But at least everyone was out

The Marine member of the household, Sgt. Robert Grant, was in Iraq. The MCRT had come to do a standard investigation on how meth was circulating on the base. The explosion and fire were unintended, to say the least. The people in the house had gotten out on their own.

"Come on," Gibbs beckoned as he moved toward the MCRT truck. "Nothing more for us to do here. We may come back in the morning."

Yet the next morning at NCIS brought dismal news. In the ruins of the burned townhouse a body had been found.

After a week, it was positively identified by dental records as the wife of Sgt. Grant—and the mother of the children, and sister and daughter, respectively, to the woman and man they'd seen.

"The children said nothing to us at the time," Ziva said, numbly, as their worst fears had been confirmed. "Why did they not cry for their mother?"

"They did, I think," Tony sighed. "I heard them crying…I didn't think anything of it. I thought they were traumatized by the fire."

Tim sat down hard. Nearby, other employees of the squad room were setting up an artificial Christmas tree; two putting the braches in place while two more tested strings of yellow lights. "I could have done something. Maybe." He wasn't sure. He did know that he'd had an urge to run in and search the burning building, and yet…

"No dead heroes, McGee," Gibbs said sharply, and accompanied that with a head slap. "Or weren't you paying attention at the lecture last month?"

"Yes, boss," Tim mumbled. The lecture had seemed like nothing more than the usual _be alert_ training sessions that agents had to attend now and then. Long ago, Tim had realized that all of these lectures were a combination of policy plus someone's opinion. That didn't make them _right_ or _wrong_ in the great scheme of things. They were just an idea. Most were probably _good_ ideas, having made it through various chains of command at Human Resources and even, sometimes, the Director's office, but Tim's private opinion was that they were _suggestions_ as a way of life. This latest lecture on safety in the field emphasized the facts that _risk taking_ = _bad_ and _being around to work another day_ = _good_.

Tony's snide remark back then had been that it was a _monetary_ thing: the agency didn't want to keep investing money in new recruits if they were going to throw their lives away. There might have been something to that.

It all did seem logical to Tim, as he watched the tree decorators open the boxes of ornaments. Agencies were no place for heroes and dreamers. That was the stuff of stories. In real life, it was the sensible plodders, going on day to day, who powered the treadmills and hamster wheels that made the agencies run. It didn't sound romantic, but it kept people safe and made the most impact.

* * *

Seven days later, the older man—father to the dead woman—and his other daughter (the woman who'd gotten out alive) were arrested on charges of meth production and manslaughter, in addition to numerous smaller charges. Sgt. Grant, on compassionate leave for his wife's funeral, now had to deal with the fact that his father-in-law and sister-in-law would be serving prison sentences. It made the mind reel once again; the horrible things that families could inflict on their own members. All for a little money.

Still, NCIS was not in the position to mete out punishment. JAG was the next step; NCIS' part was over, for now. It was time to put feelings for that aside and move onto the next case. One could mourn the dead, but Life was for the living…and Christmas was coming.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Part 1

**I. **

Tim McGee found it hard to sleep one night shortly after JAG's indictment. He usually dropped off without any trouble; the typical 50-60 hour work weeks used up much of his energy. Not tonight, though. Something deep inside him didn't want him to be at ease, and yet he couldn't identify what it was. _Late-night pizza,_ he thought. _Or maybe it was the peppermint stick hot cocoa I had later._ He could still taste the holiday treat. He brought it out at Christmastime just as others brought out the Christmas decorations: the bells and candles; the nativity scenes; the wreaths, the ribbons, the wrapping paper; the Christmas cookie recipes; the Christmas DVDs and CDs; the tree, the ornaments and the lights.

Tim rolled over and back in bed, fighting the tangling sheets in the dark, until he at last sat up.

The room was no longer dark.

His night table lamp, the ceiling light and the track light in his closet were all off, but still the room was lit, dimly, from somewhere. In the center of his bedroom, looking at him solemnly, stood a white goose with a wreath of holly around its neck.

Tim sat up and rubbed his head in amazement. Never before had he had a dream like this!

"You are a long time arousing, Timothy," said the goose. At least Tim _thought_ it was the goose speaking in a mild, unfamiliar voice. Its beak opened and closed as it talked. The pitch was moderate; unquantifiable as either male or female. "Considering that you did not appear to be sleeping well."

"What in the name of—Who or what _are_ you?" Tim demanded. "How did you get in here—_Tony!_ This sounds like one of his tricks."

The goose looked unperturbed. "I am the Christmas Goose. To a certain few, I bring tidings of things yet to come."

"There must be a recording device around here…it would be just like Tony to plant a stuffed goose in here and insert a tape, or a microphone, and laugh himself silly. _Very funny, Tony!"_ he yelled at the goose. "Well, _I_ am going _back to sleep!"_ He did get back into bed, and fumbled for the lamp switch before realizing that the lamp was still off.

"Huh. That's strange…" Tim now looked carefully about the room from the vantage point of his bed. There was still the dim glow from an unseen light source; casting everything in a soft golden hue, or perhaps like a sepia tone of old. Curled on his dog bed against a wall, Jethro slept on peacefully.

"Look, Tony; I don't know how you're doing this. Did you get Abby to do this with you?" Tim snapped.

"Tony is not involved in this," said the goose. "This concerns only you and me."

"You can't fool me, Tony. This has _DiNozzo_ written all over it! Well, two can play at this game. I'll just tinker with the wiring in your goose, and then we'll see who laughs—_gotcha!"_ Tim lunged for the goose.

The goose, of course, saw him coming. It had been watching him all along. It made no effort to get away.

Tim wrapped his arms around the round, white creature and grabbed…nothing. His fingers, hands, and arms went right through the creature, which had no more substance than air.

A feeling of some dread washed over Tim then, starting in his heart and radiating in all directions. "This isn't real," he said to himself, but aloud. "This isn't happening. This is only a dream. A really, really strange one, but a dream nonetheless."

"It's no dream, Timothy," said the goose, and stopped to preen the feathers of its left wing for a moment. "Are you familiar with the song that starts, 'Christmas is a-coming, and the geese are getting fat'?"

"Yes. I sang it as a kid.

_Christmas is a-comin' and the geese are getting fat;  
__Please to put a penny in the poor man's hat.  
__If you haven't…_

"I can't remember the rest."

"I will help you.

_If you haven't got a penny, then a ha'penny will do;  
__If you haven't got a ha'penny, may God bless you."_

"Yeah, so?" Tim laughed, with a touch of a sneer. "How long has it been since half pennies were in circulation? Not that one would go very far today, anyway."

"It was meant as a teaching song, for children," the goose said, in its mild tone. "It is a song about giving. Even the humblest child has something to give to a less fortunate person."

"I give to charity," Tim shot back. "I have deductions taken from my paycheck, and I write out checks to other charities over the year."

"Do you? And this is what you consider giving of yourself?"

"Look, Goose, or whatever you are. This has to be one of the craziest dreams I've ever had at…" Tim looked over at his alarm clock, but the glowing LED digits made no sense to him. "…at whatever the time is."

"You have a chance to make amends," said the goose. "A chance to learn. Let it begin…_tomorrow_."

"Amends? Amends for what? I haven't done anything!"

"That is correct," said the goose. Suddenly the room plunged into its normal nighttime darkness.

Tim blinked a few times and let his eyes adjust to the dark. The goose was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking his head and then laying down, Tim fell fast asleep.


	3. Part 2

**II. **

His hand hit the _off_ switch on the alarm clock after the fourth buzz. Tim yawned and stretched; feeling fairly refreshed. He smirked as bits of the silly dream came back to him. _A goose! A 'Christmas Goose!'_ Of all the things…Maybe he would ask Ducky if he knew anything about analyzing dreams.

Jethro padded to his side and pushed Tim's knee with his nose. Tim scratched him behind the ears. "Too bad my dream was just a dream, boy," Tim said to the dog. "I'll bet you would have liked chasing a big ol' goose."

He took Jethro out for their morning walk, marveling a bit at the crispness in the air. The forecast had been for warmish and rainy, not clear and frosty. On the corner, just across the street and down a bit from his apartment building, displays of wreaths and holly strings for sale were being refreshed by an early-rising florist. _That shop is new,_ Tim thought. It was always nice to see Christmas decorations, though. _Just a few more weeks until the big day…_No matter how old you got to be, there was always a thrill about the season. "All right, boy. Time to go in. I've got to get to work."

* * *

Traffic was worse than normal, so he didn't arrive at NCIS as early as he wanted. A minor vexation along the way was that the price of his morning cup of coffee had gone up 20 cents. Not a happy way to start the day. To top it off, someone had changed the lights on the squad room Christmas tree from _yellow_ to _multicolored_. This irked Tim; by agreement he and Tony had long coerced the others in the squad room to agreeing that Yellow Lights Are Best. Where had Tony been when this multicolored travesty had taken place? "Morning," he grunted to Tony as he set his things down at his desk.

Tony looked a bit surprised. "What're you doing here?"

"Um…I work here?"

"Not on Wednesdays, you don't. You've got a sardonic look about you. What; did you blow off your boss on Monday?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, and it will take at least six ounces of caffeine before I can figure it out," Tim said, calmly. He hung up his coat and then returned to his desk.

Gibbs came in then, and gave him a sharp look. "McGee! What are you doing here? It's Wednesday!"

"I, uh…"

"DiNozzo! You're supposed to be subbing at the Pentagon at 8 today! Go! Am I the only one around here who can read a calendar?"

"Heading out now, boss." Tony grabbed his coat and moved swiftly for the elevator, giving Tim a curious glance on his way out.

Tim shrugged and logged onto his computer, only to find that his password was incorrect. After trying it again and getting the same error message, he made a phone call to the IT department to get his password reset. While waiting for this to happen, he glanced over at Gibbs. The man looked tired, and Tim thought he saw a few wrinkles in his face that he hadn't seen before. _Dry winter air. That'll do it._

"_Okay, Tim. Log on with temporary password Tim98765 and then change it."_

Thanking the man, Tim logged on and waited for the computer to go through its morning log-in steps. Things looked a trifle different. _There must have been an upgrade last night…_ First stop, the agency email.

_Tim,_

_Be sure you're in by 8 Wednesday morning. We need to go over the training schedule for the Northeast sector offices. Have you arranged for your plane tickets yet?_

_Collier_

Collier? There was only one Collier at NCIS that Tim knew of; Collier Black; who headed the small Safety division. Yes; there was his full name in the _from_ line. But what in the world was this all about?

Another email popped up; just sent to him now:

_Tim,_

_Got to go home. Granddaughter crashed the car. Again. She's okay, but shaken up. Needs a hug from Gramps (and a talking-to). You can work with your team today, and I'll see you next Monday. No, on second thought, come up and see me first thing Thursday about the travel._

_Collier_

But then Tim noticed the date stamp.

**_12 December 2012_**

2012? There must be a bug in the email program…today wasn't _really_…

But there in the lower right corner of the computer screen was the same date, though ordered as **_12/12/2012 (Wednesday)_**.

His face flushed with panic, Tim thumbed to a couple other web sites with news reports; anything reliable: **_December 12, 2012. _**Over and over. He grabbed for his mini desk calendar, and instead of astronomical pictures, he found it had pictures of jetpacks and other stuff-of-dreams inventions (_now when did I get this?_). It too was dated 2012. He must have bought it in 2011, obviously…

Stumbling from his chair, Tim lurched toward the men's room, feeling sick. It wasn't really 2012! How could it be? How could he have misplaced two years of his life? This was crazy; a dream…

_Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas_ played softly over the PA as Tim threw cold water on his face, and looked at himself in the mirror. That was when he noticed the gray hairs at his temples. He was looking at an older self of himself.

The door opened and someone came in._ Ziva._ Tim groaned. She'd never outgrow this invasion-of-boundaries, it seemed.

"Are you all right, McGee? You were running for here when I came in…"

"I think I'm…I don't know. What's the date today, Ziva?"

"It is December 12."

"Okay, but what year is it?"

She eyed him. "You do not know what year it is?"

He laughed, weakly. "Of course I do. Just a joke. Everyone knows it's…2012. And I'm supposed to be somewhere else today."

Now she was really studying him. "Yes, on Mondays and Wednesdays you work in the Safety department for Collier Black. You work with us on the other days. Are you ill, McGee?"

"No…yes…no. _No,"_ he said, forcing firmness into that last word. "You've never given up treating the men's room as something other than a man's sanctuary, have you?"

Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. "Perhaps I just like to keep you on your toes." She walked out, leaving him to stare again at his few gray hairs.

* * *

When Gibbs left for a meeting with Vance, Tim pretended to work quietly at his desk (on a case the team had, about which Tim knew nothing, of course) but instead pulled up old emails. He was one who kept all but the most routine emails, storing them in folders, so he was able to trace the series of events that lead to his dual position with the Safety department.

_There!…_in January, 2011, he'd submitted a suggestion to Vance for training for employees on self-assessment and the importance of friends and family. His thinking was that someone who was well-grounded in a relationship with family and/or friends would be less likely to play the hero card in a dangerous situation in the field. Vance had liked the idea and had asked if Tim had any more ideas.

Tim did. He'd skipped over the mental health issues—acknowledging that he had no training there—and instead looked at equipment safety, teamwork, and keeping a calm outlook. He'd also strongly urged morale-boosting initiatives (while drawing a line at motivational posters).

Vance had had him (apparently) meet with Collier Black of the one-man-show Safety department. Black seemed to be quite receptive to Tim's ideas, and joked to Vance that he would poach him from Gibbs' team.

Only it turned out not to be a joke. In less time than it took to read about it, seemingly, Tim was working two days a week with Black in his third floor office. Black actually did all of the safety studies for NCIS, and had been yearning to get out to meet with people in other NCIS offices across the country, and abroad. With an assistant, even if only a part-time one, Black could now start to do so.

That was in March of 2011. Now here in December 2012, Tim was being groomed to make his first solo Safety training visit, which would be to the Northeast sector offices.

With a shudder, Tim closed the email folder and turned back to the team's case. _Why can't I remember any of this? What have I learned from Collier Black? Why can't I remember what's happened in the last two years? Did I hit my head? Do I have amnesia?_

"McGee?"

"What, Ziva?"

"Are you certain that you are all right? You are breathing hard."

"I think…I think I'm sick. I'd better go home. Or to a doctor. Or something."

"Would you like me to drive you?"

"No, thanks. I have my car here, and I'm okay to drive." Tim hurriedly filled out a leave slip on his computer, printed it out, signed it and threw it on Gibbs' desk. He dated it as his mind told him to: _December 15, 2010_.

And he left a Post-It note on Tony's computer: _Yellow lights! Were you sleeping when that happened?_

* * *

The low winter sun played peek-a-boo with scattered clouds as Tim drove. He noticed things he hadn't noticed before. A new interchange on the highway. Some new billboards. The old, closed schoolhouse was now a building of apartments, about to open. Bumper stickers from the 2012 elections already starting to fade on cars…Tim tried to make them out but couldn't quite read them.

_Who am I, in 2012? _He rubbed his fingers on his left hand. No wedding ring._ No surprise there…my love life is probably still immeasurable._ The car seemed the same, although he had about 40,000 more miles on it than the last time he'd checked. _I guess I could get used to life in the futu—in 2012,_ he thought. _I don't seem to have any other cognitive problems. So I've had a little memory loss. It'll probably come back to me._

But that didn't keep him from feeling uneasy.

Parking at his apartment building, he crossed the street to the new shop and there bought some holly bunches to liven up his apartment. Shopping for the tree would wait until Christmas was closer. Tim always had a real tree, bursting with pine tree fragrance. No artificial tree for him!

Jethro jumped up on him in excitement, pleased to see the master home so early. The two of them frolicked in the apartment for awhile and then Tim remembered the holly. "Christmastime, boy!" he said to the dog. "If you've been a good dog this year—and I'm pretty sure you have been—Santa's going to bring you rawhide bones and chew toys!" Jethro barked happily at Tim's excited tone.

Tim dug into the Christmas decorations boxes in his storage room and got out the thin green florist's wire. _Just the thing for attaching the holly to…wherever it looks good._ Around the kitchen counter supports, maybe. He got shears out, but when he went to get the holly from the counter near the door, it wasn't there.

_Where could I have put it?_ It wasn't in the kitchen, nor in any of the other places he'd been in (or, even, _hadn't_ been in) since coming in the front door. _Maybe I dropped it outside?_ But a look out the front door showed nothing. _I probably did drop it, and someone picked it up and took it._ He sighed. _I'm getting forgetful in my old age._ The thought made him chuckle. _34 isn't old…look at Tony; he's now…_

With a cold bottle of water in his hand, Tim sat down and turned on the noontime news. _"…clean-up after the Deepwater Horizon oil spill. Environmental scientists say that coastal vegetation…"_

Wow. So it was still in the news two years later? What a tragedy that had been.

_"…and in the fallout from the mid-term elections, Republican leaders said today…"_

He stood up and stared at the TV. _Midterm elections? But in 2012, we would have just had the_ presidential _election last month…_

Now Tim quaked as his heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. This didn't sound like news for 2012 at all. He remembered how the station did things, and sure enough, as they were about to cut to a station break, the date appeared in the bottom right hand corner of the screen: _Wednesday, December 15, 2010._

Slowly Tim rose and turned on his computer. It showed the same date in 2010.

He felt sick to his stomach. Jethro's ears pricked up as Tim headed for the bathroom. Tim turned on, for once, the make-up lights on his vanity (a leftover from the previous tenant) to get a good look at himself in the mirror.

There were no signs of gray hairs.

_Am I losing my mind? _

_Did I just imagine this whole day?_

_Which is real?_ he asked himself. _This, or what I experienced at NCIS?_ _Am I dreaming now, or was I dreaming, then? _He did become sick then, and spent quite some time retching until he could not do it any longer. He washed his mouth out, undressed, and crawled into bed. He didn't object, for once, when Jethro jumped up onto the foot of the bed.


	4. Part 3

**III. **

Tim slept—in peace—the night through. He woke up early the next morning and took Jethro for a long walk/jog in the direction opposite to their usual path. The sidewalks and roads were damp with the overnight rain, and the air was warmish. Not at all like yesterday's ground-frosting.

Jethro found a lot of smells that caused him to linger and sniff by every tree, lamppost and hydrant along the way, and so they were later getting back home than Tim had planned. He quickly showered, shaved and dressed, and dashed off to work.

He remembered Collier Black's email from yesterday, and instead of getting off the elevator at the squad room level, went on up to the third floor. Black's office was at the back of the building, where NCIS put a lot of the non-critical areas. "Hey, Collier," Tim greeted the gray-haired man.

Black looked up and seemed surprised. "Agent McGee, is it? What can I help you with?"

Tim felt his gut twisting a little. "You asked me to come up here." When Black looked blank, Tim plowed on. "You sent me an email. About the training in the Northeast offices. I need to get travel arrangements…"

The older man stared at him. "Son, I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe there was some mix-up or something the Director hasn't told me yet. Why don't you go back to the squad room, and if I learn anything, I'll contact you."

"Uh…okay…sure." Tim was about to add, _If you're sure you don't have anything for me to do today…_Black was pushing 65. He might be exhibiting dementia, as horrible as that was to consider. Or maybe Tim had read the email wrong, and was just embarrassing himself. "I'll just…go…"

Black nodded to him, and went back to his own work.

Tim trotted down the stairs to the squad room, coming in as Tony and Ziva were just arriving for the day. Ziva gave him a smile. "Good morning, McGee. How are you?"

"Better, thanks," he said, which gained him a puzzled look from her. "Yesterday?" _Why doesn't she remember our talk? _"In the men's…? Never mind." He also didn't want to mention the strange encounter with Black until he'd had a chance to think about it some more.

Tony headed in his direction. "Tony, about that note—the yellow lights—maybe we should—"

"I don't know what you're babbling about," Tony said, and dropped something heavy in a sack on Tim's desk. "There you go, McPrognosticator," Tony said. "Your winnings of the bet. Two cases of Diet Coke. Now you can stop bugging me about the mid-term elections."

Tim froze, remembering the bet now. It had seemed like just a few days ago that he had needled Tony about not paying off. _But it _can't_ be, after all this time…_

"What's the date today?" he said in a squeak.

"December 16, and don't goad me into saying how many days it's been since Election Day. About 40, I know."

Tim checked his watch, remembering it had a calendar. The tiny window showed 12/16/10.

_Stop beating so fast, heart. We're not running a race._ As Tony returned to his desk, Tim glanced over at the Christmas tree.

_Yellow lights._

Trying not to run this time, Tim beat a path to the men's room and stared closely at the mirror. He turned his head this way and that. Not a sign of gray hair. He grinned. He was 32 again.

After slapping his cheeks a few times to convince himself he was awake and then adding cold water to his face, he slipped back to his desk. There were no emails dated later than 16 December 2010, and that was the date the computer displayed, too. And the date on his mini calendar—his 2010 _astronomical_ calendar, bless it—was the same. No inventions-of-the-future calendar in sight.

It had all been a dream. A really strange, long, convoluted dream. Gibbs wouldn't ask him about the leave slip, because that had never happened. Tim chuckled to himself, and dove into his work…after giving a happy look once more over at the Christmas tree's yellow lights.

* * *

On the way home, Tim considered going back to the florist's across the street for some more holly…but he couldn't find the shop. Instead, in its place was the junky-looking crafts shop that Tim had seen for years there and had never entered. _Guess I dreamed that, too._

Maybe he needed a physical. A little too much this or not enough that in his diet. Being out-of-balance could do strange things to people, he knew. Or too little sleep or too much sleep. A vacation; yes, that would be a good idea. He'd built up lots of leave time. Maybe a trip to a distant spot in January would be the thing. Get through the holidays first, and then let Life get back to normal and all would be fine.


	5. Part 4

**IV.**

"Timothy…"

He hadn't slept at all well this night, and startled awake at his name. When he opened his eyes, his heart sank. Once again, there was the wreath-wearing goose in the middle of his room, and the room glowed with the strange amber light. _"You!"_

"I am back," the goose admitted.

"You can't be _back_. I'm _dreaming_. I've got to cut something out of my diet to shut you up. Do you know how crazy I've been these last two days? Last one day?" he corrected himself. "And why, again, am I talking to a dream?"

"I am no dream, Timothy." It then cocked its head in an accusatory look. "You have learned nothing in the time I gave to you."

"Then, what _are_ you? And what was I supposed to have learned? From a dream; a, a, nightmare. Not that I'm likely to believe _anything_ you say."

"You have seen much that surprised you. The future can be disorienting. It can also be informative. Why do you think that people since times ancient have valued seers, to tell them what the future holds?"

"The future?" It started to make a strange sense to him. "Are you saying that I visited the future…?" He thought about it for a second or two and then laughed. "I'm still not convinced that this isn't an elaborate trick of Tony's and Abby's."

"It is no trick. I am here to help you, to understand where you are headed. One life affects many. It's not too late to change your ways."

"My life is pretty good," Tim said hotly. "Why should I want to change anything? I'm an honest person. I do my job pretty well. I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"This time of year is a time for reflection as much as it is a time of celebration. Timothy. During this season people long to hear stories of courage and love and giving; bits of knowledge they can take away and apply to their humble lives. I am coming to you now when you may be at such a receptive time. You do not understand yet. But you must. For your sake; for other's sakes."

Tim harrumphed. "Jethro!" he called. "Jethro! Wake up! Nice goose to chase!" But the dog slumbered on.

"He cannot hear you," said the goose. "We are in a dimension beyond the current time. Your faithful dog would help you if he could, but he is not part of this."

"Oh, yeah? So, what is this? Like _A Christmas Carol,_ with spirits that will show me the past, present and future? Coming at the stroke of midnight, or was it 1 a.m.?" Tim sneered.

"The analogy is a trifle misplaced. It _is_ the future, though, that you need be concerned with. That is what I am here to show you."

Tim's stomach knotted. The way that the goose said it was oddly convincing. "But…in that book, the spirits were in human form…and you're a…"

"Ah, yes." The goose gave one wing a shrug. "It was felt that even the human forms were frightening to many. So I appear as a goose with a friendly decoration. Sometimes I wear a red ribbon instead of a wreath. A folk art goose is not frightening."

"Well, one who speaks is," Tim said, trying to keep from stammering.

"Unfortunate. But I have my mission. Timothy, you must work on changing your outlook, or you will remain on a path leading to despair and destruction. It is not too late to change."

_"You're just a dream!"_ Tim yelled. "I came home yesterday and everything was normal! _Stop bothering me!"_

The goose flapped his wings and grew…and grew and grew until it nearly filled the room, becoming more transparent by the second. Tim cried out and flattened himself on his bed, covering his head with his pillow as it seemed the goose would envelop him. And then the room was dark again, and the goose was gone.


	6. Part 5

**V.**

Jethro didn't stop for smells nearly as much on the next morning's walk. In fact, the dog didn't seem to have the same spring in his step as usual. Tim cut the walk short and headed for work at his usual time.

Tony was in early. "Morning, Tim," he greeted. "How're things going?"

"Same old, same old," said Tim, about to put his coffee cup down on his desk…which he suddenly noticed didn't look like his desk. His things weren't there. The computers were new. Catching his eye then was the squad room Christmas tree, with…multicolored lights. Again. When did that happen?

"What are you doing, Tim?" Tony asked, his voice still friendly, but sounding curious. "You look lost."

"I was…" How did you say, Is someone sitting at my desk? without sounding weird?

"Well, we always like to have you come and visit, though I know you must stay pretty busy."

Tim stared, seeing now the grey hairs at Tony's temples.

"Hey! Probie! We start work on time around here!" Tony called over his shoulder, and a stocky young man smiled as he walked by.

"Got ten minutes yet by the clock, boss," the man said cheerfully. "Hey, Tim; nice to see you again." He sat down at Tim's desk—Tim's desk!—and took off the lid on his coffee cup.

Tim then noticed the nameplate on the desk. Cary Alberts. Someone new. "Uh, thanks,...Cary. Always good to see you."

"Oh, this must be the Tim McGee Tony talks about all the time," said a smiling, tall young woman, coming up to him, hand extended. "I'm Jing Kim. I'm Tony's newest Probie. Just got out of FLETC two weeks ago, and thrilled to be on the MCRT, even if only on a temporary detail—so far! Just watch; I'll earn my spot and be back here for good!"

"Well, welcome, Jing," Tim smiled, shaking her hand. He remembered his early thrill at working on Gibbs' team. But where is Gibbs?

Another person came into view. "Ziva!" Tim said, happily. "Ziva!"

Ziva, yes, and yet…a different Ziva. He hair was cut short, to a bob that curved under her chin. There was a tiny scar on her forehead, partially hidden by the droop of her hair. She had a more serious look about her, making her seem…older. "McGee. How are you?" she gave him an appraising look. "It has been awhile."

"Fine," his voice caught in his throat as he painfully accepted now that once again he'd been thrown into the future. But how far? "I'm fine. How are you?"

"Keeping busy," she said with a slight smile. "Tony keeps us moving."

Cary hung up the phone on Tim's…his desk and announced, "Boss, we got two sailors wounded in an alley fight down by the docks. Attacked by thugs, supposedly."

"Grab your gear, people!" Tony barked, and then added with a friendly smile, "Wish you could come with us, Tim. I miss those days! You and me and Ziva! The Three Musketeers!"

"Yeah…me, too," Tim said, but the fast-moving foursome was already out the door.

So where do I work now? Obviously, I'm still employed by NCIS, but…

And, strangely enough, he missed Tony calling him "Probie."

Tim followed his hunches and went up to the third floor. There, at the room labeled Safety Division, his name was on the door, where Collier Black's had once been. My department now. There was no feeling of elation, though, in having his own fiefdom. It was a narrow little field, and it might have some importance, sometimes, but was this really what he wanted to be doing with his life?

He had to call down to IT once again to get his password reset so that he could logon to his computer. When that was accomplished, the first thing he did was check the date: Friday, 19 December 2014.

It shook him. He didn't want to check a mirror right away to see how many more gray hairs he had. One thing he did have to check on, though, was Gibbs. If Tony was now leading the MCRT, what was Gibbs doing? Field work was a dangerous thing, and Tim prayed that his mentor was still alive.

Calling up the NCIS employee directory, Tim nearly collapsed with relief on seeing Gibbs' name was still there. He was an Agent Afloat, though; serving on the Ronald Reagan. Why would Gibbs have given up the job that he loved for a position usually held by much younger agents?

What had Tim said to him, the last time they'd seen each other?

He hoped the parting words had been good, with no animosity. Tony had always been Gibbs' favorite, but Tim liked to think he'd done his best for his boss…

There was nothing pressing for him in his emails or on his calendar. Tim decided to take a little time (since he was more or less his own boss) and go see Ducky. The M.E. was a wise, comforting friend who would probably be able to read him, even if he didn't offer too much.

Stepping off the elevator at Autopsy, Tim entered the main room…only to stop dead in his tracks at seeing a woman in the standard teal scrubs. "Uh…hello…"

She turned and smiled; a nice smile. "Hello. You must be one of the agents. I can always tell by the bearing. I'm Beverly Singh."

"Uh, nice to meet you. I was actually looking for, uh, Ducky."

It may have been something she'd heard more than a few times, for her smile turned wry. "You people don't keep up with your email, do you? I would think that a man of Donald Mallard's stature would have gained more notice. You missed him by about two months. That's when Ducky retired."

"And you took over."

"Yes, this is my little shop of horrors now. I used to work for the FBI. A year of working as the good doctor's associate, and then he decided he wanted more time to tend to his garden and do a little travelling. He gave this to me. Well, technically, Director Vance did. But Ducky was a guiding force. I don't really know how long I'll be here, to be honest; I'm 58 now and my husband is pushing me to retire so we can travel. We have family all over Asia and the Pacific. Why, I remember the time we were in Laos. We met a prince in a caravan of circus performers, who—"

"And Jimmy Palmer?"

"You know, I've yet to meet him, but I've heard so much about him. He's just about finished with his residency, I think. Ducky was fond of him. Always praising him when he wasn't cursing him. I hope I get to meet him one day. I've always found assistants interesting. Why, back after I finished my residency in the '80s, I was working in central Africa, and we had an assistant in our camp; a young woman who had been schooled in Antarctica because her parents said she sunbathed too much, and—"

"What; there wasn't a retirement party for Ducky? Jimmy would have been sure to attend that."

She looked sober. "No; Ducky didn't like a lot of fuss made about him. You knew him, I see; you would understand that. He quietly submitted his resignation through channels and requested that no mention of it be made before he left. And then he just didn't come in to work one day, and that's when we all found out."

"That does sound like him…Well, I'll let you get back to work, Dr. Singh."

"Okay, then. Nice to meet you!" she said cheerfully, and went back to her cadaver. Tim left with a smile, reflecting that she'd never even asked his name.

In his office, Tim made motions on his computer that looked like he was doing something. Apparently he had been on the West Coast for most of the last month, hosting safety seminars at NCIS field offices and at various Navy components in San Diego. Maybe he, his future self, had a passion for this work, but to Tim's 2010 mind, it seemed dreadfully dull.

My only saving grace is that this isn't really who I am...just when I am. Most likely, when I leave here today it will be 2010 again and…

Stop it, Tim! You're acting like this is really happening; that you're really, magically, four years in the future! It's not happening! It's a dream! You'll wake up, and…

…isn't that what I said yesterday?

He could feel himself sweating. Time to take a lunch break. Maybe getting some nourishment would help him think things through.

Over a juicy hamburger, Tim thought and jotted some notes on a napkin. Assuming this was all real, in some sense, why was he here? Further assuming that the goose had some power to project him into the future, what was the reason for doing so? Why me?

The goose had said something about Tim not having learned anything. What? What was he supposed to find out? Was this something he had done? Or not done? He couldn't think of anything momentous. He hadn't been called on the carpet for making any colossal blunders in recent months. As always, he just spent most of his waking hours going to NCIS and doing his job as best as he could.

Sure, it was sad that Gibbs and Ducky, and perhaps even Jimmy, were no longer part of his NCIS contacts, but wasn't that how Life operated? Things changed. People got promotions or left after awhile. Not everyone stayed in the same position for year after year. Look at me. I'm a department head now. A small department, true, but still a department. The same pay scale as a supervisory special agent. I must be happy with that…I guess.

For wasn't he still aiding in the fighting of crime, too? He just wasn't slogging through mud anymore or photographing bodies or risking being shot at. He was telling employees 'round the world how to stay safe. Yes sir; that was important. The quarterly newsletter he evidently created and put up on the employees' web site proved that.

But why? Why, then, since he was doing something so necessary…why was he having to go through this? Why couldn't he just let the future happen to him, as it did to all the other mortals of earth who time traveled forward at a rate of one second per second? If I did something wrong, why won't the goose just tell me?

I didn't do anything wrong. I would know if I had. Tony has always said I have an over-active conscience, and that was a liability in this line of work.

Ergo, the goose is wrong, or…

I really am still dreaming this.

He reflected further on what could be causing these dreams, but couldn't come up with an answer.

After lunch he ran into Ziva in a hallway. "Hi," he said, with a breathless smile. "How've you been?" he added, and then blushed. "I asked you that this morning, didn't I?"

She smiled and looked down at her shoes. "Yes, you did. I am still fine."

"How's, uh, how's married life treating you?" For now he could see clearly that the flash of gold he'd seen in the squad room was a ring on her finger. It was a surprise, but…Life went on and as her friend, he knew he should be happy for her.

"It is good," she answered, but the smile dimmed a little. "Elijah and I are…we are good."

"Well, that's good. Really good. Congratulations on settling down. I wish you two much happiness."

She looked to the side, a fleeting look of…sadness? crossing her face before she composed it.. "Sometimes, McGee, when you cannot get what you truly want, you have to settle…in order to settle down." She abruptly turned and went back to the squad room, leaving Tim (who knew of no Elijahs in Ziva's life) puzzled and vaguely disquieted.

At the end of the workday, he headed home; his car occasionally complaining. Small wonder; there were about an additional 37,000 miles on it. Tim wished he had a clue as to what his life was like here in the future. Aside from not being a field agent anymore, it didn't seem to be much different from 2010. That was good; playing things safe meant that one had a better chance to live to a ripe old age. Maybe I'm absorbing the safety officer's tips, Tim thought with a smile.

Too bad I can't get any useful information from this dream. In December 2014 the country would have been through the Presidential election in 2012 and the mid-term election in 2014. Tim had tried doing a little internet browsing for information on those, but like information on the stock market, it always somehow eluded him as pages didn't load. The forces controlling his dreams seemed to want to keep this "insider information" away from him; much as when in dreams you tried to read something you were seeing…you couldn't; not really. The mind didn't work that way, except in a few cases.

So was it any more "real" than it had been the other day? He had no idea. With any luck this was the end of this silly affair and he'd be able to enjoy the holidays in peace.

Before going home, he once again stopped at the florist's across the street and found, happily, that they had a small foods section and the hot cocoa mix he liked so much. It would be nice to have something to take the chill off.

But when he got inside and set his things down, he couldn't find the small tin of cocoa. It was as if he'd never had it. It wasn't in his car, either. Just like the holly, it had vanished. Tim peered out his window at the shop and asked himself if it was worthwhile to go back for another tin.

Scratching his head, Tim made do with coffee. He wasn't happy about that, though.


	7. Part 6

**VI.**

He slept peacefully through the night. No goose visitation. Perhaps it was the bottle of water he had before going to bed, instead of a can of diet soda. Maybe the water flushed things out of his system, including the tendency toward weird dreams. Maybe that's what I should fix for Ziva's holiday dinner party. Roast goose. Oh, yes.

Jethro was frisky when they went out for his morning walk. This time they went in the direction of the florist (which was still the junky crafts shop). Tim considered poking his head in the door to get an assessment of when the place might be closing, or to ask if they were having any specials. None of his friends were into crafts, but maybe Gibbs, or Ziva, or… But the shop wasn't open at this hour, and the idea of implying that the shop would go under seemed cruel, anyway. Who knew why it would convert to a florist's? It might not have anything to do with being a bad businessman, anyway. Maybe the owner was just getting older and would retire and move to Florida in 2011.

Tim giggled to himself nervously as he thought that. This is 2010. I'm sure of it. There was a newspaper vending box on the corner, and a newspaper delivery truck was just pulling away. Yes; there was the date: December 17, 2010. A Friday. Thank heavens; how many work days had he put in this week? Five in 2010 (counting today), a half day in 2012 and a full day in 2014? If they were all real, that was a long stretch.

* * *

"Hi, Ziva!" Tim said when he got into work. "You look nice. Very nice."

"Why, thank you, McGee," she said, looking pleased. She peeled off her hat and gave her hair a shake…that long, beautiful brown hair.

Don't ever cut it, he wanted to say, but he knew that was an outlandishly personal thing to say. He was one who respected boundaries.

"Happy Friday. It has been a long week, has it not?"

"You said it," he sighed. "Not a new case all week. I wonder why?"

"No one dying? Or committing a crime? I think that is a time for celebration. It is the days between Hanukkah and Christmas. A time of peace, perhaps."

"If only I thought crime took a holiday."

"Well, cheer up—we may get a double homicide next week."

"That would make anyone's day," Gibbs said, swinging in, coffee in hand.

Boss! The happy word formed on Tim's lips, but he didn't say it. Boss! If going into the future meant saying goodbye to his friends, Tim wanted to stay firmly in 2010.

A sack dropped on his desk with a light thud! "There you go, Probie. The rest of my payoff from the bet. A Nutter Butter case."

Tim opened the suspiciously-light box and found it stuffed with crumpled newspapers. Not a cookie was in sight.

Tony leaned over his desk, smirking. "Your exact words were, and I quote, 'a Nutter Butter case.' You didn't say a case of Nutter Butters. So here's the case. They were delicious, by the way." He laughed loudly as he ambled back to his desk. "Boy, do I love the ambiguities of the English language!"

Tim gave him a death glare and then sighed. Yes, he would even put up with Tony being Tony if it meant he could stay here in 2010. But Tony is nicer to me in the future. He realized that that might be because they weren't working so closely together. Tony could be friendlier if they were apart. You miss what you don't have any more.

Is that it? Is that what the goose is telling me? But it can't be that simple. Absolutely everyone experiences loss.

Why me? Why is the goose appearing to me? And for the hundredth time, Tim thought, I haven't done anything.

* * *

After work Tim shunned the group's request to go along on the usual Friday night pilgrimage to a favorite local pub. He was afraid that drink might loosen his tongue and have him spill out the story of the goose. That would make them laugh…or worse, have them pity him and question his mental stability. The holidays were supposed to be a happy time, and if he couldn't stay in the mood with his friends, then he was better off alone.

How long is this going to go on?

But the weekend turned out to be quiet and undisturbed. Tim spent Saturday helping the Marines wrap and bundle packages for their annual Toys for Tots drive, as he did every year. He played with Jethro in the park, and then drove around with him at night looking at the colorful Christmas lights on the houses and commenting on them to him (with no idea if the dog got what he was saying, but Jethro didn't seem to mind). On Sunday Tim went to church and then shopped for Christmas gifts for Jethro and his friends and family.

Tim realized something that weekend. Of course the florist's shop wasn't there; it hadn't come into existence yet. The one thing in Tim's frame of reference that didn't flip-flop between the future and the present was his apartment. Inside there, for some reason, it was always 2010. That must be why the holly branches and the cocoa tin had eluded him—they only existed in the future. He couldn't bring them inside. Why that would be, he didn't know, but it seemed the only explanation. His apartment was a stationary time machine.

In any event, Monday would be the start of a new week…and Tim had a dreadful feeling that it would be a make-or-break one.


	8. Part 7

**VII.**

On Sunday evening, after dinner, Tim pulled out his Christmas DVDs. Something with a little Christmas cheer might be more satisfying than watching the doom-and-gloom of world news on TV. He was in vast need of uplift. He reached for _Elf_, but it fell from his hands. Instead he found himself clasping the 1951 version of _A Christmas Carol_, the one with Alastair Sim. No. He reached for something happy; like _White Christmas _or _National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation_, but his hands went past those to the 1938 _A Christmas Carol_ that starred Reginald Owen. No! No!

Shaking, he leaned away from the box of DVDs. He was being powered by some outside force, it seemed. Something unnatural that was pushing him.

He had a dish of gaily colored candies on his coffee table; a small treat to himself in a year in which he'd worked hard at getting his weight down: red and green and silver foil-wrapped chocolates, bright nougats, and tiny candy canes covered the crystal dish's design of a smiling snowman. Trembling, he grabbed a few candies, unwrapped them, and stuffed them in his mouth. _Why me? Why me?_ He tried to wipe away the tears forming in his eyes as he leaned against a wall, and then, suddenly, the tears fell on their own accord.

Jethro came up to him and rested his head in Tim's lap. There the two of them, dog and man, remained for a long time, until it was finally time for bed.

* * *

"Awaken, Timothy! You still have much to learn, and my time grows short."

Tim was about to make a snapping retort, but found himself in tears again.

"Ah, Timothy. I see that you fear me. That is not my aim."

"I'm not…not afraid."

"You sense that you are losing control. I assure you; I am giving you no more than you can manage…with courage. I believe you have that courage."

Tim groaned and sat up in bed in the amber light as his tears stopped. "You know, if you would just tell me what this is all about, then it would be a lot easier for both of us."

"'Twould be nice, I agree. But this is something you must discover for yourself. Only in the discovery can you grow, and change."

"I beg of you, Goose. I'm trying. Really. You can't even give me a hint?"

The goose only stared at him.

Tim sighed. "Okay, I got it. No hints. It's all up to me. How far into the future will I go this time?"

"Far enough. Perhaps it will do you good now. This is your last chance, Timothy. Act now, before it is too late." The goose vanished, taking the odd light with it.

"I always thought I _was _doing good," Tim mumbled, and settled back down to an uneasy sleep.

_My last chance…my last chance…_


	9. Part 8

VIII.

Morning came far too early. These were the shortest, darkest days of the year. Were it not for the strong thumping of his heart telling him he had something fearful to face today, Tim might have just approached the day blandly. He was sure that attempting to hide wouldn't do any good. Today, he would have it out…for better or worse.

But first he had to attend to Jethro's needs. Tim freshened the dog's water bowl, and set out food for him. Then it was time for his morning walk. Tim took the leash down from its hook by the door. "C'mon, boy! Walk!"

Jethro didn't get up, though; he only whined a little and put his head down on his paws.

"Jethro; shake a leg! I can't stay home and play with you today; I have to go to work!"

But the dog didn't budge. He only flattened his ears and whined again.

"For Pete's sake! You're not going to go in here. Come on, dog!"

Tim picked up the dog, grunting. Jethro wiggled out of his arms and slunk toward the door, his head lowered and his tail between his legs. He then cast a mournful look back at Tim.

"Honestly; I don't know what's gotten into you today, you dog. We're going out." He snapped the leash on Jethro's collar and opened the door.

The morning was frosty; the walkway slick. Jethro walked a few steps, trying to keep up with Tim, and then sank down, breathing heavily.

"What's wrong, boy?" Tim asked, crouching beside him. In the light of the streetlamp he then noticed the gray hairs in Jethro's muzzle. "Oh, no…oh, no…"

He picked up the dog, who whined in pain. "I'm sorry, boy. I'm sorry. I didn't know," Tim said, feeling a lump in his throat. "I swear I didn't know. I understand now." And he did, remembering the last morning following the goose's visit. Jethro had seemed a little lethargic then. "We've jumped another couple of years into the future. Everything has aged. You're an old, old dog now outside the apartment. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Slowly he went back inside, carrying the dog, and still speaking to him. "You knew, didn't you? You somehow sensed that things weren't right for you out there. Please, Jethro. Please get better. Look, it's 2010 in here. You're a much younger dog inside here. I'm going to set you down in your bed, and you just get some rest. I don't care if you pee in here today. It's okay. I just want you to get well." I hope it's not too late.

Tim stayed with the dog for over an hour until he showed signs of improvement, and then dashed off to work. No doubt, the Safety department would fall apart without him there. Tim found that he didn't really care.

* * *

The first surprise was his car—his _new _car. He'd stood, puzzled, in his apartment parking lot, looking for his car, until he spotted his license plate on a new Porsche Boxster of a cream/copper shade. Well, something's good about the future, he thought as he pulled out into the road, the new car running like a dream.

At NCIS Tim stopped off at the squad room, girding himself for news of whatever changes he'd have to face now. How far in the future had he gone this time? At least the NCIS walls were still orange. Thank heavens for some constancy.

And then there was the squad room Christmas tree…but not the same tree. A monstrosity had replaced their battered, lovable, decades-old green tree. Now the squad room tree was a retro '60s aluminum tree that was illuminated by a spinning color wheel that cast it in rotating shades of red, blue, green and purple. Tim's eyes nearly bugged out until he at last turned them away when his friend came in. "Hey, Tony. How's things?"

"Tim! Good to see you. Good to see you." Tony genuinely did look happy, and he shook his hand and clapped him on the back. "I heard you were out at the European installations and I was afraid I wouldn't get to see you before I left."

"Before you left?"

"Pshaw! You of all people I would think would be wired into your email. The news just came through a few days ago. You are looking at the new Assistant Director of NCIS! I fly out to San Diego next week, and start the job in ten days." His smile was as bright as the light reflecting on the horrendous silver Christmas tree.

"Assistant Director! Why, that's…that's wonderful! They made a good choice," Tim grinned.

"Thank you, thank you," Tony made a mock bow. "You know, Tim, a couple years ago when you were still on the team—I thought that would be your job some day. That you would move up the ladder, to an SSA and maybe some administrative post, and then wind up in the big chair upstairs. But then you went off onto this Safety thing." He tugged his ear. "Well, I guess that's what you wanted. Good for you, Tim."

"Thanks. Well, I'd better get to my office. Let's get together before you go, okay?"

"Count on it!" Tony replied, pointing a finger at him.

With stooped shoulders, Tim headed off, taking the elevator instead of the stairs. That was my dream, too. To move up the ranks. I would have been a good administrator. Once inside his little office with the door closed, he stared at his desk and table and then gave his wastebasket a powerful kick before letting his shoulders drop even further.

* * *

He finally sat down and was about to call down to IT for a password reset when he noticed a piece of hardware attached to his computer. A fingerprint reader! Well, it was about time NCIS got those; these things had been around for…some time, anyway. He pressed his finger in the slot and his computer logged itself on.

This time Tim had a little less fear about searching out the date. Thursday, December 22, 2016. Another presidential election had come and gone, and Life went on. He pressed a key and soft Christmas pop music came from a hidden wall speaker.

It was a time to rejoice and count one's blessings…but what ones of those did he have? Family? He'd no way of knowing how or possibly where they were, and he was afraid to find out. His friends? Due to his long work hours at NCIS, he had almost no friends outside work, and these few were scattering to the winds. He froze as it now registered in his mind that he had seen someone else, a man, sitting in Ziva's chair downstairs. Ziva's chair! It had once been Kate's chair, and then Kate died, and Ziva…came in and took it over, and soon they loved her for it. Please…please, let nothing have happened to Ziva…

Tim bolted for the door and walked quickly down the hall, stopping at the balcony to peer down at the squad room. Yes; definitely a man at Ziva's desk. He had a buzz cut; probably ex-military. So Tony had an entirely new team…who would soon be someone else's new team. A lump formed in Tim's throat. I don't like change. Why couldn't we have stayed as we were?

"Ah, McGee. Back from Europe, I see."

Tim turned around. "Oh, hello, Director. I was meaning to check in with you." He hadn't seen Vance in this six-year journey to the future until now, and flinched a little on seeing that his boss had likewise grown grayer and had even lost a little hair and put on a few pounds. The glasses were new, too. The moustache was still there, although almost completely gray now, but Vance's eyes were still warm and his smile genuine.

"Not a problem. I got your report from Rota. They were overdue for a shakeup. I appreciate your being honest with their shortcomings. I'll keep them on a short leash until they bring their performance up."

Tim nodded. "I hear that Tony got the Assistant Directorship. That's really good. Really good. I'm glad for him."

"Big of you to say that. He'll do a good job," Vance agreed, and left Tim to his thoughts.

* * *

An errand sent Tim down to Autopsy, where he planned to ask for dramatic suggestions for an upcoming Safety newsletter. It was topmost in his notes to do so. Tim hadn't wanted to read any further down than that; afraid he'd just uncover something that would depress him more. He was surprised, however, on not finding the chatty Beverly Singh there. Instead, there was someone familiar…very familiar… "Jimmy!"

The scrubs-clad man (although the scrubs were now a soft blue instead of the teal Tim was used to) turned to him and smiled. "Hi, Tim! You don't come down here very often."

"No, I—I guess not."

"What can I do you for?" Jimmy Palmer then turned to the young man behind him. "Robinson; watch what you're doing! Tissue cutting must be done delicately; like you're cutting a wafer-thin slice of meat for your granny who eats like a sparrow. Wafer, Robinson."

"Sorry, Doctor Palmer," said the young man sheepishly. Then he brightened. "You know, if we match this cadaver's good green eye with his inflamed red one, we could decorate him for the NCIS Christmas party!"

Jimmy glared—powerfully, at him.

"Uh…that was inappropriate, wasn't it?" Robinson asked meekly.

Jimmy rolled his eyes as he turned back to Tim. "Youngsters. I don't know where they get these ideas."

Tim smiled. "I, uh…I was curious. When did you start here, Jim?"

"Oh, it's been a good year now, I think. Thirteen, fourteen months? That sounds about right. When I came back, I felt like I'd never left. This is home."

He did look pleased. Well, someone's happy with 2016. His desire to get material for the newsletter dried up. This wasn't the right time. Just getting his head around Doctor Palmer, M. E., head of Autopsy was hard enough. "Well, good. Take care, Jimmy."

"You, too. Say, what did you come down here for, Tim?"

Tim smiled, a little sadly; the smile of one who can't give the whole truth. "You know, I've forgotten."

"A senior moment. Happens to me, too. We should do dinner sometime."

"Yeah. Call me."

"If I don't see you again before then, have a Merry Christmas!"

"You too, Jimmy!"

Tim hadn't asked questions that he didn't want answers to. Coward? Or realist?

And then he decided to make the social call that he'd been putting off doing all these "years". The place where he could get the answers.


	10. Part 9

**IX.**

The doors to Abby's lab slid open without a murmur. Everything was pretty much as he remembered it from 2010, with the exception of some new equipment. And yes…thankfully…in the center of it all, with music spinning around her, was Abby.

Seeming to sense him, she turned, and a smile lit up her face. "McGee!" Running to him, she grabbed him in a crushing hug. Tears formed in his eyes. Abby! She was still here, still gorgeous, unchanged. "Oh, McGee! I've missed you so! You travel and travel and I never see you anymore and I never even know if you're coming back!"

"Of course I come back," he chided mildly, as she loosened the hug. "This is my home. I don't want to be anywhere but here." He was able to get a good look at her now. Her jet black hair was unmarred by any gray, but there were a few fine lines on her face under her make-up. She was aging beautifully.

"I just got in last night," he added. Maybe it was true, in 2016. "Tell me what's been going on here."

"Well, I haven't seen you in like a million years, so do you want me to start from there, or what?"

"Sometime after the start of recorded history will do."

"Okay. It's all so crazy. Tim, I love it when you come to see me, even though it's seldom, but dang it, Tim; it's all wrong and it's all your fault!" She waved her arms and fury overtook her. "I don't know why I'm even speaking to you!"

"What did I d—"

Realization hit him. Abby had the key. If he asked the right questions, maybe he'd get the answer he'd been looking for.

"What did you do? What did you do! You should know, mister. And because of you, Tony is about to leave us for San Diego and I may never see him again! And if it weren't for you, that wouldn't happen! It should have been you!"

"Wait; what? You want me to be gone so you can still have Tony here?"

"Yes! No! Stop confusing me! Tony should not be getting that job, and everyone knows it. It's your fault. Because of you, Ziva took the job as the head of the Marseilles office."

"Ziva's in Marseilles?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Yes. You said Ziva's in Marseilles." The good thing about an angry Abby was that she didn't notice that she was feeding you information that you should already have.

"Because of you. After she and that Elijah divorced, she no longer had the spirit to work on the team, with you and Gibbs gone. So she put in for that job and got it."

"Gibbs…"

"Keep up, McGee! Remember? Once he retired last year, he moored himself in his house; hasn't made up his mind about moving to Mexico or not or maybe even to Stillwater. He'll dither forever. And Ducky's returned to Scotland. I get emails from him grumbling about the weather. He likes to grumble."

"But Tony…"

"Oh, he thinks he wants the job, but he won't be happy in it. He's a man of action. Endless desk work will wear him down. And that's your fault, McGee!" She scowled at him.

Hands on his hips, he shot back, "You keep saying that. How are other people's promotions my fault?"

"Because that should have been your job, McGee! You should be the Assistant Director! Vance had been grooming you for a rise in the agency all along, and you threw it away! Everyone knows that. Everyone could see, years ago, that you were going to go far. I was thinking that by the end of this decade you would be head of NCIS. It would have been perfect! Oh, Gibbs and Ducky would still have retired, but Tony and Ziva would still be here, probably each with their own team, and we'd all be happy. Then you had to go and upset the apple cart!"

Tim was shocked and a little humbled. Really? They thought that I could…? "What did I do?" he asked numbly. "When did I go wrong?"

"I can tell you when. It was in early 2011, when you started falling in love with that stupid, stupid Safety department. McGee; I don't know what you were thinking. But it took over your life, and gradually lured you away from being a field agent. And then, everything started falling apart…"

"I couldn't have done all that," Tim said, but he felt uneasy, as if he was on the verge of hearing bad news.

"You could and you did. You were the heart of the team, McGee. The one with the heart. When you left, Tony stopped making as many jokes. They all started hanging out after work less. Ziva missed the camaraderie, and started finding outside interests. She met that Elijah and married him two months later. That was a disaster. And then Gibbs left, to be an Agent Afloat."

"Yeah; why was that? It doesn't seem like him."

"Don't you see? With you off in your unpromotable direction in that dead-end job, Gibbs left, earlier than he might have, to give Tony a chance to lead the team. You were supposed to get your own team. With you off in Safetyland, though, Tony was then, maybe, the backup choice to advance in the ranks. Gibbs gave up a job he loved so Tony could get the promotion while there was still a chance for something in upper management to open in a few years. Now Tony's going to be the Assistant Director, but it's the Peter Principle. He's risen to the position where he is incompetent, and he'll never advance from there. That should have been your job, McGee. _Your _stepping stone to the Directorship.

"Now I have just one question for you, McGee: Is this what you wanted? Did you really want to spend the rest of your career making newsletters and giving speeches, when you could be doing so much more? Would you have done all this, knowing that it would break up our group of friends?"

Tim didn't point out that that was more than one question. "Abby," he said gravely, "if I could change one thing in the past, what do you think it should be?"

"It's obvious, McGee! However you got interested in that Safety thing—ignore it! End of chapter and verse!"

That would mean…yes! Yes! Now he knew! Spontaneously, he kissed her on the cheek. "Thank you, Abby! Put some carols on. It's Christmas!"

With a whoop, he departed.

In his office, Tim grabbed his coat, hat and gloves. He didn't bother to submit a leave slip to Vance's secretary before he ran out of the building. He had a feeling that he wouldn't be coming back to this department.

* * *

The winter sun was sinking as he drove home, its orange color making the scattered clouds pink and purple. Buildings were shadowed in blue and festive holiday decorations on streetlamps glowed softly. Everywhere, in store windows and on houses, pretty lights glowed. Large plastic decorations of Santa, Frosty, reindeer and the like dotted some lawns. All that they needed was a little snow—just a little—and things would be perfect. "Enjoy yourself, 2016," Tim said cheekily while driving. "It'll be awhile before you see me again!" Provided he really had things right this time, that is.

He burst into his apartment, waking up Jethro, who sprang to his feet and danced around Tim. "Good dog," Tim laughed. "You're feeling better? Good; good." He was about to suggest they go out for a walk, when from the window he noticed with a chill that he could still see the florist's shop. The calendar had not yet reset itself.

"Goose! Get in here!" Tim yelled to the walls, and then in case his location mattered, he went into his bedroom and did the same thing. Jethro padded after him, looking curious. "Goose! Let's have this out now! I know where I went wrong. I understand now. I can make things right again. I will make things right again. I swear it. I will change my life. I won't go in that direction. I won't be the one who lets the team split up. Please, goose. Please..." He fell to his knees, sobbing, ignoring Jethro's attempts to lick his tears away.

The goose last night had said this would be his last chance.

But Tim was lying, and he knew it.

For in truth, he wasn't 100% sure that he knew how to set things right, or what had caused him to gain an interest in the safety department. It was like that part of his mind was blocked to him. And why wouldn't it be, since 2011 hadn't happened yet? Why did I do it? Why? Why?

He was sure of only one thing, because his gut told him this: If he went to bed tonight without having found the answer, the path might be irrevocably set.

In the background the gentle Christmas jazz station that Tim had left on that morning played. Fragrance from last night's pot of hot cider lingered faintly in the air. And then…cutting through Tim's tears came the sound of sirens: loud, plentiful, approaching. Tim looked out the window. The florist's shop, there six years in the future, was on fire.

His agent's training taking over, Tim grabbed his coat and gloves. "Stay here, Jethro!" he ordered, and bounded out the door and down, but not across, the street.

"Is everybody out?" he asked a firefighter who had just gotten off a truck.

"Dunno, sir. Please stand back."

"I'm NCIS," Tim said, producing his badge. "If I can be of any help…"

"I don't think so, sir, but thanks."

Tim did stand back. He wasn't trained to be a firefighter. He didn't have their protective gear or equipment. He'd just be in the way if he got involved.

He turned back for his apartment building, sad that someone's dream business had gone up in smoke.


	11. Part 10

X.

The goose didn't come that night. Tim slept uncomfortably, waiting for him to appear, despite the goose's saying that his prior visit would be his last. It was very late when Tim finally slept, exhausted.

The next morning Tim looked out his window for signs of charred rubble where the florist's had been, but instead saw the old crafts shop. It was 2010 again outside. He and Jethro had a brisk jog, and then Tim went off for work…in his old, much loved, silver Boxter.

At his coffee shop on the way in, he bought a coffee cake on impulse.

"What do you have there, McBakery?" Tony asked suspiciously when Tim came into the squad room.

"Just a little morning snack for us."

"Us? Define 'us'." Tony's eyes widened on seeing the appetizing treat, adorned with red and green maraschino cherries in honor of the season.

"Our team, Tony," Tim grinned. "We have to share it with Ziva and Gibbs." He grinned further as Ziva cut in between them, one of her knives in hand and a serious look on her face. He and Tony both stepped aside and watched as with a flick of her wrist, she plunged the knife into the cake.

"You are very kind to bring this, McGee," she said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. Thank you all for being my friends."

Tony spoke between bites. "Why the sudden generosity, Probie? Got a guilty conscience for something you did?"

"I don't think so. Not now." Later, maybe. Like next year.

He still had his hunch, but didn't know if that was enough to stop the chain of events. 

* * *

In the early afternoon, the MCRT's dry spell of new cases broke.

A few months ago, they'd broken a counterfeiting ring that was based in Annapolis and had helped keep the sensational aspects out of the scandal-wary school. Now there was a sign that a plebe, one Allen Tickner, who'd seemed guilt-free before, might be involved in a fresh start of a ring.

Having gotten a call on the tip line, the team arrived at a dilapidated barn a few miles from the Naval Academy. Searching the barn and the grounds around it, they found nothing. "No one's been here in awhile," said Tony as they came out of the barn. "It's like it was back in April, boss. Plebes making prank calls to us."

"No, there!" Gibbs' sharp eyes had spotted a man—Tickner—running…making a break for it, it seemed. Instead of heading away from the barn, however, he ran into it.

"He's after the evidence," Tony growled as they chased after the man. But inside, he was nowhere to be found.

"I do not think that those tubs were there before," said Ziva. "They have been moved." Indeed, behind them a steel plate in the floor could be seen. The tubs had covered it before.

"A storm cellar or root cellar," Gibbs grunted, and hauled open the trap door. Flashlights showed a dirt floor about ten feet down, with a ladder leading down to it. The four of them scrambled down. Papers littered the floor near a small table with an unlit oil lantern.

"Where'd Tickner go?" asked Tony. "There's no way out of here but up."

"Not necessarily," said Tim, swinging his flashlight on a far wall. "There's a tunnel leading off this way…pretty narrow…"

"Careful, McGee," said Gibbs as Tim edged into the tunnel. "You don't know how solid the walls might be."

Tim said, "Tickner may not know, either. This obviously leads to a way out."

Gibbs jerked his head. "DiNozzo. Go head Tickner off, topside. Go southwesterly."

"On it, boss."

Tim moved in further, calling, "Tickner! NCIS! Come out with your hands up!" There was no reply.

"McGee! Come on back. We'll get him above ground."

"I don't think so, boss," Tim called back, his own eyes wide. "He's here. He and someone else, a female, are stuck in a storage tank. I think they tried to use it as a hiding place." The flashlight reflected on the scared faces of the young people.

"We'll get them out. What do we need? Crowbars, ropes, winches?"

"No!" Tim yelled back. "It's…" he suddenly felt dizzy. "He must have damaged something. I smell some kind of gas."

"McGee! Get out of there! Now!"

"I can't leave them, boss!" Tim pushed forward, covering his nose with a handkerchief.

"McGee! Ziva's calling 911 for the trained rescuers!"

"Get out, boss!" Tim called, not sure if Gibbs could hear him through the handkerchief. No more talking; can't afford to inhale…

He had to pull away the handkerchief to use both hands. A special agent doesn't have that much training in rescues, so he was going on instinct and praying he was right. Looping his belt around the woman's wrist to form a wristlet, he then pulled her out—and out she came with a pop! He gave her a push in the direction of the team, and she ran. Now Tickner remained. Tim and Tickner locked eyes, and then Tickner came out on his own. Gasping, he accepted Tim's steadying arm, and they both stumbled out before falling at Gibbs' and Ziva's feet. 

* * *

A dose of oxygen from the county rescue squad and Tim declared himself good to go, declining hospital treatment. The suspects fared a little worse due to longer exposure, and required more extensive care. After seeing them delivered to a hospital and put in the custody of Navy military police, at least for the time being, Gibbs' team was ready to call it a day. The county HAZMAT team had arrived and would take care of the gas. What NCIS had learned was that the woman was Tickner's girlfriend who appeared to be truly innocent—she'd believed him when she told her he was a commercial artist on the side. The counterfeiting charge surprised her. Tim had rescued a suspect and a bystander. 

* * *

Gibbs had, in recent years, started a tradition of taking his team out to dinner on some opportune day around Christmas. It would be nothing fancy: just good, filling food in a congenial enough setting. "How about it? You guys up for dinner tonight?"

They knew what he meant, and all three grinned. "I _am _hungry," Tim admitted. "Oxygen as an appetizer doesn't cut it." He didn't even mind the head slap that came. Somehow, everything seemed right. Better than right, even. He felt wonderful. It must be the oxygen making me giddy.

One of the Navy police suggested a good place to eat that was on the water, a pub not far away. They got back in the sedan and drove to it. Tim laughed when he saw the sign on the pub: It was of a white goose with a wreath around its neck. The name of the pub was The Decorated Goose. Yes; definitely appropriate, and Tim felt it was no coincidence that they wound up there. "Thank you," he whispered to the painted sign. "Thank you."

The pub had large burgers and ribs; pasta and seafood and other hearty dishes as well. The team ate with gusto, and Tim, Ziva and Tony toasted their boss. "We've made it through another year, alive. Though I started to have my doubts this afternoon," Gibbs said, cocking an eye at Tim.

They all laughed. "Yeah; what was with that, Probie?" Tony guffawed. "Are you trying to be a poster child for Collier Black's safety campaign?"

"A do-not-act-like-this-agent poster child, you mean," said Ziva, her eyes twinkling. "McGee, you scared us back there. You must have great luck on your side."

"Something like that," said Tim, smiling. Yes, he'd almost died. But he hadn't died. Right now, he couldn't be happier.

"Ziva! I challenge you to a little game of flying missiles." Tony drained the last of his beer and dropped his napkin on his empty plate.

"If you mean darts, then I accept your challenge," she smirked with confidence. "Shall we make a wager?"

When the two had moved on to the darts area on the other side of the pub, Gibbs leaned forward and addressed Tim with a steely blue-eyed stare. "For the love of God, Tim! I've told you before: the agency doesn't want dead hero agents. When are you going to learn? I thought that after the incident in Quantico last month…"

"That's just it, boss!" Tim said eagerly. "I didn't enter that burning townhouse in Quantico. If I did, I might have gotten Mrs. Grant out in time. I might have saved her life." He looked sad, and turned his face away.

"You did the right thing, McGee. It was a tragic end, but you can't be risking your life every time…"

"No, boss! That's where I disagree with you! Completely!"

"Oh?" Gibbs' look was skeptical, even a little cold.

Tim pushed ahead, sure of his position. "Yes! Yes, it would have been dangerous. And what I did today was dangerous. But don't you see, boss? We can't spend our lives always trying to do just that which is the safest. Sometimes we're first responders. When time matters—when there's no time to wait for the professional rescuers—I feel we have to take risks. Even really big ones. The training I went through to become a special agent makes me believe that that's the morally right thing to do. Take risks; safety courses be damned. If I can save a life, I'm going to do it.

"And I know that goes against NCIS thinking and probably always will. I will probably be smacked down by NCIS every time I do it, and maybe that will keep me from ever getting promoted. But you know what? I don't care. I'm going to keep doing it. We need to be heroes sometimes, more than we need to be safe in our own skins."

Gibbs studied him. After a long moment he shook his head and sighed. "Danged if I don't learn something new from you sometimes, Tim. You're right. I've been relying on the official position of NCIS for too long. So I'm going to say to you, 'Don't get hurt' and 'Good job.'"

Tim grinned a little. "Isn't that a little contradictory?"

"Yeah, maybe. Deal with it. Have you ever met Collier Black?"

"Nope. Just heard him speak. Never been introduced."

"Then don't. You'll only give him a headache. But I think you'll go far. Is there some reason you changed your way of thinking from last month to now?"

"There is," Tim admitted, his eye caught by another painting of the goose, hanging on a shield above the bar. "But you'd never believe it. Consider it advice from a dear friend." He raised his glass in a toast with his boss. 

THE END


End file.
